The Kingfisher

This is a response to Free Write Friday at Magic in the Back Yard to write a poem based upon a memory.

A path forever darkening; and then
a light, a lightening, an eye
that winked between the trees to say
"Come on!". I found a lake, its shape
dog-legged, and on its bank
a solitary angler, oil-skin caped,
with whom I passed the time of day.

There, as we talked, from trees
behind us and above our heads,
a rending sound, as leaves,
confetti-like, showered down.
Then from the fisher-man
a muttered curse as though he knew
a flash of blue would come,
would tear the sky apart
the way it had the trees;
and while that sundering
yet echoed in our ears,
an angry seamstress of a bird
would rip the faulty work apart
and leave its ragged seam
stretched out along the lake.

My startled movement released more:
a flight of butterflies rose up
from somewhere on the path
and merged with the descending leaves.
Pale pink, they caught
the day's one shaft of sun,
a stab of blood-stained blade.

I saw him later, that bright bird,
brown-bellied, duffle coat
of cobalt blue pulled back,
white flashes shining in the mist.
He'd perched upon a stump
in splendid isolation in a stream
that fed the lake, but he
was like an emperor or bishop
on his throne, and in his beak
a fish, a scepter of a sort.